An Extraordinary Imperfection
by A Beauty to the Rhythm
Summary: "It's always been the two of them against the world. This is just one more thing that's only theirs. A memory, and a lack of one. It's an imperfection, but an extraordinary one." Post-ep for 7x06, 'The Time of Our Lives'


**Extraordinary**

It's later, much later, when he gets the courage to bring it up. The moon is shining over the ocean that had been dusted with pinks and purples just a few hours ago.

Maybe it's not the best time for it, but they've been born anew today, and it feels like this last little thing is hanging on from when they were Castle and Beckett. He wants them to be purely Castle and Castle.

Flames lick up the sides of the massive iron anchor in the fireplace at the end of the bed. Her pantsuit is laid out neatly on a chair; she must have rescued it after he'd tugged on the soft white knot at the small of her back, letting the fabric pool at her feet, and he'd suspected that she hadn't been wearing underwear but now he knows.

The rest of the house is quiet, dark. It's just them; them and their rings and their extraordinary, overwhelming, consuming love.

He asks the question at the end of a long slide into her. It's not their first round as a married couple, or even the second, but it is the first press of his body into hers after making love with her on the bed and then fucking her in the bathtub, and now they're back on the bed and he's inside of his _wife_ when he gasps, unable to comprehend how deeply he loves her. He's swamped with it. But he needs the answer. They both live for answers.

"Rick?" she whispers. "What's wrong?"

He buries his face in her neck, tries to swallow the question down, tries to glide back into her again to distract them both. It works, for a second, and her neck lengthens and cranes back, her head pressing into the pillow as she moans. He catches her mouth with his when she comes back, and then he's grating the word out along her jaw.

"Why?"

He repeats the stroke and glide.

"Why what?" she asks.

"Why didn't you tell me how we met?"

Oh.

She tips his face up. He stills, but she brings her legs up to circle around his waist, locking him into her.

"Oh, Rick, I don't know. I - when I met you, I thought I knew you. I had all of these ideas about you, patched together from the words other people wrote, and then you showed up and started messing with my case, with my life, and by the time I started trusting you, it seemed like it was too late to bring it up."

"But we've been together for more than two years," he says weakly. He's not mad, he's just - he doesn't know how he should feel about it, because he doesn't know why she didn't tell him.

"Babe, I wish I could give you a good answer. But honestly, I have no idea. It just never seemed to be the right time. What was I supposed to say? I got my book signed by you, but you don't remember?"

"Yeah, I guess I know what you mean. But you know how strongly I believe in fate, especially after today, and I just think it's strange that I could have met you and not realized it was, well, you. If you know what I mean."

"You didn't know it was me the second time we met either," Kate smiles. "It just was a starting point, a place that things grew from. If we'd never seen each other again after that, you probably wouldn't have thought that you'd missed out on the love of your life."

She kisses him softly. "But hey, maybe we shouldn't ponder any more what-ifs today, huh? I'm your wife now, okay? It was a different Kate who went to that book signing, one that I never want to be again. You're so much more present in my life than thirty seconds spent across the table from one another, from touching only through ink. I'm right here now. Touch me."

Something loosens in his chest at her words. "I love you, Kate."

"I know. And I meant every word I said today, every word we wrote." They'd crafted their vows on the ride up, and the brilliance of them were equal parts hers and his. Just like the life they've made together. They'd taken months to plan one wedding. They'd written separate vows and typed them up, rehearsed them. They wrote these together, hastily but more honestly. She's tempted to have the napkin framed, scrawled words above a fast food logo that spell out their love.

Kate's gentle when she rolls them over; it's not at all like her usual ninja-fast flips. But she settles onto him in the same way, the willowed line of her body hovering over him then sinking down fast.

"I love being your wife," she whispers in his ear, and suddenly he's right there with her again, hips moving up to meet her every stroke. They're so, so good at this, maybe even better now. He makes her feel like her body is just a container for a million points of light.

It's later, after the rush of release has washed her mind clean, that she thinks she might actually know the answer to his question after all.

"I think just liked the story of how we met at your book party better. It's more romantic."

"Hmm," he ponders. "I like it better too, actually. What if we kept our real first meeting our little secret?"

"Mmhmm, okay," she purrs.

It's always been the two of them against the world. This is just one more thing that's only theirs. A memory, and a lack of one. It's an imperfection, but an extraordinary one.

Castle gathers his perfect wife into his arms and finally manages to sleep through the night.


End file.
